


Circadian Rhythms

by elesteria



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 19:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4071745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elesteria/pseuds/elesteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's simple, blind, trust. They've known each other for a handful of weeks, but when you’re a soldier, that time seems like years. Men you’ve known for days, become brothers, because they’ve seen everything you have, they’ve killed beside you. Eames though, he’s something different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circadian Rhythms

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I never posted this story over here? I don't know how I forgot to do that! This was originally written back in 2011. This is nothing but a self indulgent soldier fic. No weapons were named, no locations were given and no actual war referenced. I wanted to keep that information ambiguous, because that wasn't the focus of this fic.
> 
> Special thanks goes to the ever lovely Frida, who talked me down when I hit the stress point in this story. She is amazing and I'm glad that she puts up with me. ♥ ♥ ♥

All Arthur can hear is the sound of the rain hitting the trees. It’s the calm before the storm, the moment before everything goes to shit. He’s panting for breath as he slides through the trees, the ground soft beneath his feet. His gun is braced against his shoulder, his gaze cast dutifully forward, but he can still see the shadow of movement in the corner of his eyes.

He sees the glitter of something up ahead, more important than the movement beside him. He lifts his hand, everything stopping shortly after his signal. He drops to his knee, bringing his weapon up. He falls still.

He settles silently into position, limbs locking to hold him upright. There’s nothing but the gun in his hands, his unit and the knowledge that the enemy is just over the ridge.

He exhales, breathing everything out, but the calm certainty of what he is to do next. He tilts his head, eyes tracing a path to his right hand. Renner, or Runner as the team likes to call him, inclines his chin, watching Arthur closely. They know each other; know how far the other is willing to go. They’ve been together from the start, from training, to the front lines. They’ve watched people die together, they’ve killed together and this is no different. He’s Arthur’s right hand.

“Come on, Scout, they aren’t going to be making the first move.” Runner whispers to Arthur. The nickname Arthur has picked up rolls seamlessly from his mouth, his southern drawl turning the name into something warm. Runner gives him a twisted grin, shadows hiding behind white teeth and blue eyes.

“I’ve got a flare, Scout.” Arthur turns to look at Merlin, who’s pulling a flare gun out of his pack. He tosses it to Arthur, before focusing his attention forward, his gun raised and pointed. He doesn’t know where he’s aiming, but he trusts Arthur’s judgement that someone is there. Everyone in their group trusts him, which is why they’re so charitable to stop, instead of moving ahead 

They’re exhausted and just want to get back to camp, but if Arthur says stop, then fuck it, they’re going to stop. He’s saved their asses more than once, which earned him their trust and the name Scout. Always the first one to go in, always the first to spot the enemy, and always the one willing to go in to a new situation to judge the odds for his team.

“Perfect,” Arthur catches the flare and bares his teeth. He rests his weapon on the ground, his right hand lifting to give signals to his team. He gestures for them to spread out, to move further away from him, to move sideways instead of forwards, or backwards. It isn’t until they’ve distanced themselves that he picks up his weapon again.

He steadies it, before aiming the flare gun skyward.

:: ::

“The real men have arrived,” someone says, pulling Arthur’s attention away from cleaning his gun. He looks up, just in time to see another group of soldiers walking past, striding down the trail. They’re walking right past Arthur’s band of men, continuing further inland.

Their uniforms are clean and the men look well rested, which is something Arthur can’t say about his own men. His group is filled with exhausted, dirt, and blood covered men, but that doesn’t bother him. His men look like they’ve been fighting; they look like they’ve been doing something. They were the first group to arrive, not the group come to relieve the men who claimed first blood in the fight.

“I don’t see any men arriving. The only men I can see are already here.” Runner throws back from where he’s sitting on a rock. His helmet is sitting on his head, crooked, and matching his lopsided grin. The smile is all teeth holding on to the end of a cigarette. “But hey, you boys can join the party.”

Arthur smirks as he looks back down at his gun, taking in the sounds his team is making. They give resounding hoots of laughter and support of Runner, followed by a dismissive ‘yeah, yeah’ from the man who had made the initial comment.

He’s glad for it, glad that his team has the ability to still laugh after what they’ve seen. They still have their morale and wit.

“Good luck up there,” Arthur calls after the passing group, chancing one last look. He lifts his hand in a small salute, to the few who turn back to look. He can hear their whispered comments; he can see the serious turn their expressions have taken.

“Keep your luck for yourself, you’ll need it more than us,” one of the soldiers replies. Arthur catches the flash of white teeth, lips wrapped around a tooth pick, and stubbled cheeks, before the man is turning away.

Soft voices drift down from the path, unintended for anyone to hear, but its Arthur’s job to listen, to see, to notice things before anyone else. ‘Did you see what a mess they were?’ and ‘They look like they’ve gone through hell.’

_Not hell,_ Arthur thinks as he slides the pieces of his gun back into place. _What we’ve gone through wasn’t hell. What we went through was easy compared to what we’re going to have to go through. Hell has yet to come._

:: ::

“Move,” Arthur’s voice rips from his throat, only to be caught up in the sound of gunfire. He swears, his grip tightening on his gun as he lunges to the side. He doesn’t stop moving, keeps running, even as the ground explodes, and bullets cut through the air around him. Stopping is not an option, not when he needs to get across the open area.

“Get up and go,” he snaps at a man who has fallen to the ground, clutching at his head. Arthur isn’t sure if he’s wounded or not, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about is getting as many men across the field alive, as he can. There are so many people lining the ground though, that it’s hard to decipher whose alive and who’s dead.

He can see Runner up ahead, zigzagging across the sand, kicking up dust behind him. There’s no hesitation in his steps as he races to the ridge, where he can duck behind a rock where he’ll out of the enemy’s line of fire. He’s close and all he needs is a handful of seconds.

Arthur snaps to attention, lifting his gun and taking quick aim at a man who dares to expose himself in an attempt to shoot down Runner. He curses when a hail of bullets hisses just to his right, pushing him back into movement. The pause is worth it though, he can see Runner behind the ridge, taking stock of his ammo and lifting his head to locate any possible targets.

He’s always been their fastest.

“Merlin,” Arthur hollers as he passes Jason, hitting the side of the man’s helmet with the palm of his hand. Jason changes directions to shadow Arthur without question. Arthur lifts his weapon, this time not stopping to take aim at the next man peaking up from the shadows on the building across the open field.

He doesn’t have time to let off a shot, before his target flies backwards. A hoot comes from behind him, followed by the sound of another set of footsteps trekking behind them. He knows without turning that it’s Ace.

“Get to Runner,” Arthur yells over the sound of a grenade going off. He waves his hand in the direction of where Runner is crouching. He veers off, heading towards an overturned carcass of a building, where a handful of soldiers are waiting. He feels too slow as he makes his way across the open field, desperation clawing at the back of his throat.

There’s a chance that he could get caught with a bullet or grenade, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He’s hunched over, gun cradled to his chest as he makes his way to the group.

“What are you doing?” Arthur skids in behind the group, sand flying upwards where he falls to a stop. His face is hot from exertion, or from a sunburn, he doesn’t know which. He crouches down beside the men, looking the three over. They’re dirt smeared and blood spattered. They don’t look injured though and that’s all that matters.

There’s nothing familiar about the three men, but there are so many passing faces here that it’s no surprise.

“Get up and get moving.” Arthur orders, watching as two of the men stiffen automatically at his orders. The third looks up at him, blue eyes sharp and amused. He’s the one that Arthur focuses on, because the other two show no signs of being able to do anything but follow orders. Blue eyes shows a shard of intelligence and Arthur needs as much of that as he can get. “Get your men across the field Baby Blue, do not stop moving.”

“Yes, sir,” the man responds, voice rolling over the ‘r’ and turning it into something liquid.

Arthur pats him on the shoulder as he spins around, a signal for the man to get going. He doesn’t wait to see if he takes the order, just pushes himself out of the crouch and sprints across the field.

Explosions ringing in his ears, he has a vague sense that he should be scared. He knows that the instant he’s not being shot at, the adrenalin will wear off and he’ll feel it. Right now the fear is only a light buzz, distant from everything else he’s feeling. He has men to look after; this isn’t the time to be scared.

:: ::

A crack of sound sends Arthur’s team ducking, unsure if they’re being shot at or if it was a misfire. It’s always best to assume that you’re being shot at though 

Arthur drops the flare gun into the grass, hands tightening against his weapon.

He tenses, eyes watching ahead of them. He doesn’t want to miss any flicker of movement, anything that will give him a lead on their location.

There’s a shuffle of motion, a small rustle that he barely notices. He aims his gun, but the few seconds that it takes to aim are all that are needed for the person on the other side to get off a shot. Seconds are all that it takes, a single moment for a bullet to cut through the air.

Arthur gasps when the impact hits his left shoulder, dropping his gun. It slips from his fingers, falling into the grass silently. It’s silly that that is what Arthur notices in the moments between getting shot and falling backward, but that’s all that he can focus on.

He thinks that he makes a sound of pain, but he’s unsure. He can’t think past the pain ripping through his shoulder, the hot spill of blood sliding down his front and sides. There’s a dull roar in his ears, he assumes that it’s his team, but it could the blood rushing through his veins.

“Go,” he chokes out, his throat tight. He squeezes his eyes shut, the numb feeling of shock working its way through him quickly. He gasps for breath, shivers starting in his fingers and making their way up his arms and to his whole body. “No use, just go. Get him.”

“Fuck,” he thinks he hears Runner say. He opens his eyes, feeling utterly cold. A face is looming over him and he manages a small, pained smile.

“Go, I’ll be okay.” Arthur swats lamely at Runner, signalling him to go, to take their team and finish their job. It’s more important than Arthur, something that they all know.

“Fucker, you stay alive, or I will kill you again.” Runner orders, before he’s getting up and out of his crouch. He snaps an order at the team and they’re off.

Arthur lets his eyes fall shut again, letting the cold numb feeling of shock take over. He never thought that he would wind up on his back, shot, but the life of a soldier takes you to places that you never expected to go.

He pants for breath, vaguely surprised that his life isn’t passing before his eyes.

:: ::

Everything is quiet. It’s disconcerting when Arthur is used to the night being sporadically placed by the sound of exploding grenades. In this place, sleep is never a solid option, not when the enemy is doing all they can to prevent it.

It’s threatening to rain, he can tell by the slight chill in the air. He has his hands on his poncho, ready to pull it out and on if it does start to rain. He lifts his hand, shaking it out and working out the cold from his fingers. He digs into his pocket, pulling out a rumpled pack of cigarettes. He squints in the dim light, giving the pack a shake and counting how many he’s down to.

He plucks one from the pack, quickly bringing it up to his lips to hold it between his teeth. He doesn’t see the sense in holding it in his chilled hands, his fingers numb and stiff. He shoves the pack back into his pocket, uncaring that it’s probably not the best place for it. There are more important things to be thinking about other than where would be the most appropriate place to put a pack of cigarettes.

A few minutes of fumbling through his pockets in search of a lighter, he comes up empty-handed. A growl of frustration escapes him, because now he needs to get up and go ask someone for a light. He’s about to push himself up from the ground when there’s suddenly a hand on his chin, stopping him. He freezes, because he hadn’t realized that someone had been so close to him, that someone could just reach out and grab him.

It’s been to dark to see anything for the past few hours and he has lost himself in the silence of the surrounding area.

Arthur pulls back to himself, jerking his head out of the grasp and falling back to the ground. He kicks out a leg, aiming for whoever had grabbed him and earning a grunt when he makes contact. “You bloody yanks make everything so difficult. Shit, you have terribly good aim. I was just going to offer you a light, mate.”

Arthur blinks stupidly in the darkness, a shiver of familiarity running through him. There’s something about the voice that nudges at a memory, but he can’t bring to focus what. There’s a sharp sound, metal against metal. Arthur flinches at the sound, even though he recognizes the sound of the lighter being flicked open. He’s glad that it’s dark enough that no one will notice.

“Here we go,” the man whispers under his breath. The lighter sparks, before the flame catches. It illuminates a small area, throwing soft shadows over the man’s face. The man smiles before he reaches forward with the lighter, holding the flame to the end of Arthur’s cigarette.

“There,” the man smiles when the cigarette lights. Arthur watches the way the man’s lips curve as he smiles, leaving his teeth shadowed under the flickering light. He inhales, just as the man puts out the lighter and leaves them in darkness again.

Arthur reaches up, pulling the cigarette out from between his lips so that he can speak properly. The firelight was enough to show him who his companion was and having a face to put to the voice allows him to click all the pieces together. He can’t stop the smile from breaking out onto his face, but he takes comfort in knowing that the other man can’t see his expression. “Ah, Baby Blue.”

“You remember me then, brilliant.” The man responds, a wistful note in his voice. “Baby Blue isn’t actually my name though.”

“My name’s actually Eames, but you can keep calling me Baby Blue if you want.” Arthur feels the brush of a hand against his arm and his smile grows. He reaches out with his empty hand, grasping Eames’ offered one.

“Eames,” Arthur tests the name. He likes the sound of it, much better than the quickly chosen nickname.

“I’m Arthur,” he says after a moment. His smile softens, because in the darkness, there’s no one to judge him for holding on to Eames’ hand for longer than necessary.

:: ::

“How about traveling?” Arthur twists his head to look at Eames, who is watching him with a fond amusement. Their units have been together for the last two weeks and they’ve spent the same amount of time in each other’s company. It surprises Arthur to find that he doesn’t get sick of being around the other man after long periods of time.

“After I get out of here,” Arthur waves a hand, indicating the area around them. Here, doesn’t just indicate where they are though. It encompasses the war, the military, everything that has become Arthur’s life. “I plan on going places, anywhere that’s different.”

“What if I were to tell you that you could get out of here earlier, that you could travel anywhere in the world.” Eames tilts his head back, the sun falling against his already sunburned skin. Arthur keeps silent, knowing that he doesn’t have to say anything for Eames to continue. “We can go anywhere you want, we can be something more. It’ll be dangerous, but I think that we can manage. What do you say?”

All it takes is for Eames to look back down at him and brush a thumb across his cheek for Arthur to nod. It’s answer enough for Eames, whose smile grows before he goes back to soaking up the sun. “How do you feel about Milan?”

:: ::

There’s suddenly a hand grabbing Arthur’s shoulder, holding him still against the ground. Warm breath ghosts over his face. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who’s hovering over him though. Eames’ hands are quick as they glide over the clothing around Arthur’s wound.

He’s quick, ignoring Arthur’s panting breath and whimpers as he puts pressure on the wound and bunches a cloth to it to stem the bleeding. Arthur shivers, biting his tongue against a pained moan, as Eames ties the cloth in place. He finally opens his eyes, looking up at Eames.

“You bastard,” Eames hisses, his expression one of concern and anger. His focus is on Arthur’s wound, only meeting his gaze when he’s satisfied with the makeshift bandage. “You were supposed to be wearing a vest, so that there wouldn’t be a wound. I wouldn’t have shot you if I had known Arthur.”

“I know; which is why I didn’t tell you I would be coming without one on.” Arthur pushes out through gritted teeth. He lets Eames slide an arm underneath his shoulders to help him up, despite the pain flaring up from his wound. Getting to his feet is easier, even though the ground slides away and the world dances before his eyes. “Your plan sucked, so I improvised.”

“Of course you did,” Eames’ expression softens. He starts leading Arthur, taking him in the opposite direction that their team had taken. “My plan, where no one actually got hurt beyond a bruise, was not up to your standards. You arse, we could have gotten out of here without the bloodshed.”

“They had to believe it; they had to believe that I had been shot and that I wasn’t okay. They had to believe in the possibility that I was dying.” Arthur defends himself, letting Eames lead him away. He doesn’t know where they’re going, but he’s trusted Eames this far that he doesn’t see the sense in turning back now.

His shoulder his throbbing, but he’s able to focus on what’s going on around him. He casts his eyes down, locking in the case in Eames’ free hand. “They really wanted whatever you stole from them. Whatever it is, it’s big.”

“It’s very big,” Eames whispers into his ear. This is the part of the plan that leaves Arthur lost. He doesn’t know where they’re going to go from here, stuck in the middle of this god forsaken land. He doesn’t know how Eames will get them out of here. The hand on his lower back is enough for him to not ask questions though, to allow Eames his part of the plan. There has to be something, otherwise Eames wouldn’t have taken such a risk.

“Come on Arthur, move a little faster. We need to get you to a friend of mine who can stitch you up.” Eames’ voice is a purr, seductive and full of promises. “Soon we will have all the time in the world and I will take you to all the places you’ve imagined and some that you haven’t. I have so many worlds to show you.”


End file.
